


Slow Burn

by theroguesgambit



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Rimming, Sunburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 17:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4634328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/pseuds/theroguesgambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles comes home from the beach with a bad sunburn. Derek helps him feel better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short thing I did for a summer Sterek event over on Tumblr.

“It fucking  _burns_ , alright?” Stiles groans, squirming against the mattress. He  _hisses_ when a hand presses against his hot skin. “Ok,  _ow_. What part of ‘tender human flesh’ are we not understanding here, big guy?”

“I’m not understanding how you could live eighteen years with this skin and still not remember that you need to put on sunscreen.”

“Says the guy who can toast in the sun and come away without so much as a freckle,” Stiles gripes, and whines just as plaintively when the relatively cool pressure of Derek’s hand is taken away.

“This is going to peel,” Derek notes, and Stiles huffs straight down into his pillow. Luckily his back had gotten the worst of the burn – he’d gotten sunscreen his face and most of his chest in the car on the trip to the beach. And he’d  _planned_ on enlisting a certain someone’s help to get all those hard to reach places once they’d gotten there, had actually constructed a pretty satisfying fantasy of big, firm hands running cool down his back while he splayed out on a sand-warm blanket. But then they’d actually gotten there and, well.

“I blame Scott,” he says, words half-muffled by the pillow in his face. “He’s the one who called a race to the water the second we stepped out of the car.”

And then there had been water fights (Scott might have wolf strength on his side but Stiles has got the  _technique_ , ok? It’s all about skimming your hand right along the top of the water for maximum splash radius) and sand fortresses to build... and then trample on twenty minutes later when they’d all decided on a game of beach volleyball.

And  _then_  there had been Derek sitting off on the sidelines and missing the fun like the creepy lurker he is, which had basically been a plea for Stiles to drag him (read: dare, coax, and bribe him) out into the water for more splashing and slightly too handsy wrestling amidst the waves. And Stiles  _might_ have insisted on trying an underwater kiss because “come on, they’re always so epic looking in the movies.” And Stiles might have gasped in saltwater when Derek grabbed his ass unexpectedly, and come up choking so badly the lifeguard had thought Derek was trying to drown Stiles…

And all in all that had left very little time for things like putting on sunscreen.

“I blame you too,” Stiles adds, snuffling against the pillow, feeling sleepy-warm now that he’s not moving and no one’s stabbing curious fingers against his tender skin.

“Oh?” Derek’s voice comes from the direction of the bathroom; Stiles hadn’t even noticed him leaving the bed. “How do you figure that?”

“You’re my  _boyfriend_ ,” Stiles points out, stretching against the mattress and wincing as the flexing of his back muscles sends a prickle of fresh discomfort up his spine. “You’re supposed to  _offer_. Supposed to want to get your lotion-y hands all up on this.”

Derek laughs softly, and then Stiles might doze off a little bit because the next thing he knows a cool, achingly soothing pressure is sliding over one shoulder blade.

He groans, arching up into the contact because that is  _good_ , soaking the heat out of his skin and easing the dull, constant ache he’d almost stopped noticing until it was gone.

“Mmm...  _m_ _ore_.”

The hand shifts, lifting and then reappearing over his other shoulder, rubbing that cool, soothing wetness into his skin before wisping in a tease of almost-there pressure down the length of his spine.

Stiles whines when the hand retreats, twisting after it, stopping only when a hand catches his hip to hold him still.

“Hey, don’t irritate it.”

“S’good though,” Stiles mumbles drowsily, opening his eyes to smile up at Derek’s faintly troubled face.

“It’s aloe,” he returns, and Stiles snorts.

“Aloe and werewolf pain mojo, maybe.” At Derek's surprised look: “I’ve had eighteen years of sunburns, remember? Aloe never felt this good this fast.”

Derek’s lips quirk at that, the little concerned furrow of his brow easing as he squirts a fresh coating of gel out into his hand.

“Maybe I’ve just got the magic touch.”

“You do,” Stiles agrees, flailing one arm awkwardly back to pet across Derek’s creased brow. “It’s called werewolf pain mojo.” He settles back into the mattress, eyes slipping shut as Derek’s roll at him. “I don’t mind though. S’nice. Even if you  _could’ve_  gotten your magical werewolf hands all over me a few hours ago, and we wouldn’t have to worry about any potential unattractive skin peeling.”

“This is my fault  _how_  again?” Derek asks, both hands now coming to settle against Stiles’ waist. He moans appreciatively as the medicine and magic kick in, as the hands smooth in slow and firm until they meet at the middle of his back.

“You’re…  _boyfriend_ ,” he offers, breathless, through the fresh euphoric rush. Barely catches Derek’s faintly hitched breath and his returning “I am,” before he’s leaning in, blowing a cool line across the freshly damp skin at the base of Stiles’ spine.

That’s good in a whole different way, and his hips  _hitch_  into the mattress, the movement sharp enough to set the skin all along his back protesting vehemently.

Derek shushes him as the wanting moan dragging up his throat goes pained, and then he kisses, achingly gentle, at the inch of skin just along Stiles’ waistband that had managed to avoid the rest of his back's untimely flaying.

“Shh,” Derek breathes, right over the tender flesh. “Easy.”

“You are so unfair,” Stiles returns, because Derek’s just hovering there, mouth inches away from where Stiles has just realized he’s at least half hard and he can’t even move to do anything about it.

“ _Me_ , unfair?” Derek returns. “Which one of us has been moaning and begging for more since I put my hands on him?”

Stiles hates that he can be sun-sleepy and uncomfortable and  _still_ this keyed up, just from Derek getting his hands on his back and breathing on him.

“That was the aloe,” he returns, grunting as Derek’s cool thumb traces along the edge of his waistband. “Get your brain out of the gutter.”

Derek hums, pushes himself so that his elbows are braced on either side of Stiles, hovering over him, careful not to touch. He blows a gentle path up Stiles’ back to his scorched neck and then pauses, hovering right over his ear.

“And I’m just trying to get you relaxed. If you want  me to stop—“

“Don’t you dare.” 

The breath Derek laughs is too hot against his tortured skin, but he makes up for it a second later by blowing cool over the same spot. Stiles shivers, groaning openly because “We can’t… _fuck_... I can’t even  _move_  right now, Derek.”

“Just lie still,” he answers, and there’s something paradoxically predatory and comforting in the way he moves over Stiles down the bed, blowing quick, soothing breaths across his back where he normally would have left kisses. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

The sound of a bottle cap opening does exactly what it always does to Stiles in bed, but when Derek comes back to him this time it’s with more aloe -- the cool, coated hands running all over his skin in a way that has his eyes stinging with relief and anticipation.

“Not so good with the  _uhn_ … lying still.” Derek’s slick finger hooks into the band of Stiles’ swim trunks, dragging along the edge, and Stiles whines. “Ok,  _especially_  when you’re doing that.”

Derek hums, his other hand coming to rest on Stiles’ hip while his finger drags the trunks lower.

“Shh, you’re going to irritate it.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles returns, then lifts his hips, ever so gently, when Derek starts to ease the swimsuit off him in earnest. “Don’t think the burn goes down that far.”

“Not yet,” Derek murmurs, and Stiles is glancing back over his shoulder, about to question that when Derek rubs his cheek right along the curve where Stiles’ ass meets his thigh.

He  _moans_ , faceplanting straight back into the pillow.

“ _Oh._ ” His voice comes out strangled as Derek kneads his palm into the other cheek, turning to kiss away the tingle left by his beard. “Ok, that’s a good burn. I approve of that.”

“Thought you might.”

And then he’s nosing along Stiles’ soft skin, his grip this edge of too hard as they keep Stiles from writhing the way he wants to, pressing up into the touch. He knows the sensation of Derek’s tongue on him, knows the way he always spreads Stiles’ cheeks and pauses for just one breathless second before diving in like he’s starving for the taste.

It’s not like that now, though. He’s  _gentle_  about it, slow, pressing soft kitten licks and kisses against Stiles’ rim, trading them out once in a while for these sweet little nuzzles that leave Stiles whining against the  _sogoodnotenough_  pressure.

“Christ Derek, I don’t even know how it’s possible for you to be going PG on my ass but—“ He cuts off with a moan when Derek’s tongue presses fast into the tight ring of muscle, like a warning. Then he laughs. “Only you could give me what I’m asking for and act like it’s a punishment.”

“You rather I stopped?” Derek’s voice has gone raspy with want already, and Stiles grins into the pillow.

“Are you seriously wasting your mouth on stupid questions right now?”

He shifts slowly, splaying out his legs to display his ass in the best way, and Derek’s half-caught breath makes him smile again, grind his hips lazily into the mattress.

Derek’s hand slides along the firm globe of his ass, thumb pressing thoughtfully at his spit-slick hole. Stiles has a moment of pure, aching  _want_ that almost has him forgetting the sunburn, forgetting how much it’ll mess up his back, and just begging Derek to fuck him.

The finger retreats, but then Derek’s tongue is back in its place. He lets out a soft, thoughtful hum, his tongue  _vibrating_ with the sound, and Stiles makes a helpless noise while Derek grips his ass in both hands and starts to finally rim him in earnest.

He sets an aching pace of it, slow sucks and deep licks that have Stiles keening and cursing him every time Derek comes up for air, rocking back despite every effort to keep still, into the barely-there rhythm of Derek’s mouth.

“Ohgod Derek,  _I need_ , I…”

It’s all so easythat he hardly realizes how much it’s affecting him, how  _undone_ he is, until he hears his own voice, the desperate, wet slur of the words. Derek shifts, rubs his stubble-rough chin along the rim of Stiles’ hole, and his body  _jolts_  as the feeling spikes all the way through him.

“Shh,” Derek purrs, like that’s even a possibility, like Stiles even remembers how to let out a breath without a needy whine coming with it.

He wants to shoot something back, a fuck you or  _fuck me_  but what comes out, thready and desperate, is “Der…  _please.”_

There’s a sound like a snap in the distance, past the blood rush in his ears and his own needy pants, and then Derek’s damp hand is soothing up his spine, where Stiles hadn’t even noticed it start aching again.

“I got you,” Derek says, and Stiles feels himself finally go boneless at that, at the heady pressure of Derek’s cool hand and hot mouth. And then Derek’s other hand is snaking under him, this one warm but still so slick, across the  _notenoughnotDerek_ mattress and wrapping loosely around Stiles’ dripping cock.

He loses himself for a while after that, drifting for what feels like hours against the lazy sensation of Derek’s mouth and Derek’s hands, Derek’s soft, soothing promises that Stiles thinks he manages to answer back with something vaguely approaching words.

He’s a mess by the time he finally comes, eyes damp and the pillow drenched against his cheek from needy tears and wet panting. Derek moves carefully up the bed, leaving a trail of soft kisses across Stiles unburnt skin – his hip, his elbow, his shoulder – as he goes. And then, gentling Stiles’ face up off the pillow, he kisses at Stiles’ damp cheeks before claiming his mouth.

Stiles protests drowsily when he pulls back a few seconds later, but Derek just shushes him, settling down alongside him and running his fingers gently over the cool skin of Stiles’ arm.

“You have aloe,” Stiles notes, after a few sleepy moments. Derek stirs beside him, hums thoughtfully.

“Just noticing that? Maybe you really do have sunstroke.”

“No, I mean. Just. You’ve got wolfy healing factor. You don’t even get dry skin, you know? But you’ve just got aloe gel sitting in your bathroom cabinet.”

There’s a short pause, and when Stiles squints his eyes open Derek’s watching him with a look of fond exasperation.

And that's when he gets it.

“Oh,” Stiles says, startled. “I’m your boyfriend.”

“You’re my boyfriend,” Derek agrees, with a tone like he’s wondering how exactly he’d ended up in this situation.

Stiles lifts an arm gingerly, curling it around Derek’s waist and burying a grin in his shoulder.

“S’nice,” he says, soft.


End file.
